“No, no,” she answered, “none now—at least, none here. I have—I mean I had—a sister, my twin, but she died when we were seventeen. This was the most dreadful thing that ever happened to me, the thing which made me what I am.” “I don’t quite understand. What are you, then?” “Oh, something very unsatisfactory, I am afraid, quite different from other people. What Mr. Tomley said _you_ were, Mr. Monk, a mystic and a dreamer of dreams; a lover of the dead; one who dwells in the past, and—in the future.” Morris did not pursue the subject; even under their strange circumstances, favourable as they were to intimacy and confidences, it seemed impertinent to him to pry into the mysteries of his companion’s life. Only he asked, at hazard almost: “How did you spend your time up there in Northumberland?” “In drawing a little, in collecting eggs, moths, and flowers a great deal; in practising with my violin playing and singing; and during the long winters in making translations in my spare time of Norse sagas, which no one will publish.” “I should like to read them; I am fond of the sagas,” he said, and after this, under pressure of their physical misery, the conversation died away. Hour succeeded to hour, and the weather moderated so much that now they were in little danger of being swamped. This, indeed, was fortunate, since in the event of a squall or other emergency, in their numbed condition it was doubtful whether they could have found enough strength to do what might be necessary to save themselves. They drank what remained of the whiskey, which put life into their veins for a while, but soon its effects passed off, leaving them, if possible, more frozen than before. “What is the time?” asked Stella, after a long silence. “It should be daybreak in about two hours,” he said, in a voice that attempted cheerfulness. Then a squall of sleet burst upon them, and after this new misery a torpor overcame Stella; at least, her shiverings grew less violent, and her head sank upon his shoulder. Morris put one arm round her waist to save her from slipping into the water at the bottom of the boat, making shift to steer with the other. Thus, for a while they ploughed forward—whither he knew not, across the inky sea, for there was no moon, and the stars were hidden, driven on slowly by the biting breath of the winter wind. Presently she awoke, lifted her head, and spoke, saying: “We can’t last much longer in this cold and wet. You are not afraid, are you?” “No, not exactly afraid, only sorry; it is hard to go with so much to be done, and—to leave behind.” “You shouldn’t think like that,” she answered, “for what we leave must follow. She will suffer, but soon she will be with you again, where everything is understood. Only you ought to have died with her, and not with me, a stranger.” “Fate settles these things,” he muttered, “and if it comes to that, maybe God will give her strength. But the dawn is near, and by it we may see land.”